


Hands Over Heart

by jessebee



Category: Points - Melissa Scott & Lisa A. Barnett
Genre: Body Image, Canon Gay Character, Canon Gay Relationship, M/M, Massage, Post-Canon, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-15 07:46:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4598613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessebee/pseuds/jessebee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We rarely see ourselves as others see us.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hands Over Heart

 

 

 

 

A moment longer, then Philip Eslingen smiled at him again over the table. “I see the token is gone. So you were to the baths this morning?”

 

“I was, and thank you.”

 

Eslingen eyed him. “You're still sore, though – aren't you.”

 

Nicolas Rathe shrugged. “As compared to what?”

 

“That's what I thought. Come on,” Eslingen said, rising to his feet. “Take your clothes off and get on the bed.”

 

Both of Rathe's eyebrows rose. “What sweet words, these.”

 

His leman swatted him, gently enough. “And you say I have a one-track mind.”

 

“You do.”

 

Eslingen loftily ignored that. “Clothes off and lie down, on your front.”

 

“Philip.”

 

“A massage, you suspicious man. Have you never had one?”

 

A massage? “Not from – ” _Not from a lover_ , Rathe almost said. “Yes, I have. This morning, in fact.”

 

“But not nearly enough of one, or you wouldn't still be moving as you are. Go on, lie down.” Eslingen stepped over to the shelf where they kept the mirror and shaving blades, and the decoction Eslingen used to freshen the lace on his better shirts, and retrieved a small, stoneware bottle. Unsure, disquiet coiling in his middle, Rathe just watched him. Turning back, Eslingen paused. Then he held out his hand.

 

With a sigh, Rathe took it and was pulled to his feet. Eslingen looked closely at him. “Nico, what's wrong? Have I done – ?”

 

“No! No.” Rathe squeezed the hand he held. How to explain to his leman the reluctance he didn't think he could explain to himself? “Massage hurts to heal, Philip, and this morning's hurting was sufficient.” That sounded good.

 

“True enough, although knowing you, you didn't pay enough to stay for the healing part. But that's not all the reason, is it?”

 

Rathe looked back at him, wordless and suddenly annoyed with it. Eslingen raised one angled black eyebrow in question, resting his free hand on the fastenings of Rathe's shirt. But there was a kind of caution back in the dark blue eyes, caution that had been fading in the last months, and Rathe abruptly realized that he might be refusing more than a simple massage.

 

He squeezed the fingers he still held and let them go, and raised both hands to his shirt ties. “Clothing. All of it?”

 

Eslingen grinned. “Of course all of it. As good as the oil smells, I doubt you want it on your clothes. You might have to have them laundered before time.”

 

Rathe swatted him.

 

~ ~

 

Eslingen's hands were very strong, broadened and marked here and there with scars, legacies of his hostler childhood and a soldier's life. And yet they were handsome as the rest of him, really, Rathe thought; so unlike Rathe's own hands. Eslingen's were oddly graceful, pale skin still accented with indigo dye at the fingertips. Just now they were beginning to glisten with the thick oil Eslingen had poured into one palm, rubbing it with the other.

 

Biting back a sigh, Rathe dropped his breeches and tossed them after his shirt, topped the pile with his smallclothes and went to lie down on the big bed, checking the urge to pull the sheet to cover himself. He reached for a pillow then thought better of it – they never offered him one at the baths, perhaps there was a reason for that. Resting his face on his arm instead, Rathe inhaled the scents of sex and musk and amber, things that whispered to him of Eslingen.

 

The man himself came to stand by the edge of the bed, bringing with him newer smells, almond and – chamomile? “Comfortable?” Eslingen asked, putting one hand on the back of Rathe's thigh.

 

“Yeah,” Rathe said, and felt himself tense.

 

“You're not,” Eslingen countered, “but let's see if I can fix that. Tell me if it hurts.”

 

It quickly became apparent that his leman's technique bore little relation to what Rathe knew of massage. Those were therapeutic but not enjoyable, unless one liked pain: poking and pushing hard into knots and sore places. They helped, but it was never pleasant getting there.

 

This was different. Strong hands stretched and kneaded in long, soothing strokes, only occasionally skirting the edge of pain and never falling over it. As it went on, Rathe relaxed despite himself, losing some of the prickling sensation of being on display.

 

“Doesn' hurt,” he mumbled, eventually. Far from it, in fact: he was feeling now very much like soft butter. “Where'd y' learn this?”

 

“Riding takes a toll on everyone after a while, never mind anyone not hardened to it,” Eslingen said, his voice soft, “so it's a useful skill. Stay in the saddle long enough, and your legs and backside will complain.” Which … didn't actually answer the question.

 

“Hmm. 's … nice. Than' you.”

 

“You're welcome.” Eslingen sounded amused. “It's not exactly a hardship touching you, Adjunct Point. Particularly without your clothes. You've a beautiful body.”

 

Discomfort crept back, fighting the lassitude. “Hmm, no. I don', not like – ” _Not like yours._

 

“Why would you say that?”

 

“Because it's true,” Rathe said, short and sharp.

 

An audible catch of breath, and Eslingen's hands, which at some point had progressed from massaging to frankly caressing, slid up Rathe's back to curve over his shoulders. Rathe felt him lean in close. “It's not true. You _do_ , Nico.”

 

Rathe managed a small shrug, feeling heat start under his skin as he understood, suddenly at last, just why he hadn't wanted to allow Eslingen this. Why he had never allowed anyone this.

 

“Nico.” The bed shifted as Eslingen sat beside him and then there was weight and warmth as the other man pressed close against Rathe's back, and a long kiss planted on the nape of his neck.

 

“Have you never really _seen_ yourself, then; all of you?” Eslingen murmured in his ear, before lifting away. “Let me tell you what _I_ see.

 

“Runner's legs, you've got; long, so well-made, like a prize colt,” Eslingen said, running his hands from Rathe's calves upward, trailing the outsides of his knees and then spreading wide to caress his thighs, thumbs slipping to the insides and slowing, slowing, until fingers and palms curved around the swell of his backside.

 

“And this.” Eslingen sounded a little short of breath. “If you ever had thoughts of wearing better clothes, give them up now. It's too late. I won't let you.”

 

What? “Why?”

 

“Because then I'd have to follow you everywhere with a loaded lock and a pike. You have got, I swear by Areton, the finest arse in two kingdoms.”

 

“Philip?”

 

“And you're graceful, too, like a big Silklands hunting cat, all loose and leggy, hips and shoulders and _gods_ , the way you _move_ under that horrible coat of yours – ”

 

“ _Philip_.” And it was Rathe who was breathless now, twisting over to stare up into dark blue eyes gone darker, to wrap arms around his leman's shoulders and pull him down, finding mouth with mouth, pulling free the ribbon that held back Eslingen's heavy fall of hair and winding his fingers into the fragrant mass of it as it curtained around them both –

 

They shot apart as barking split the air. Sunflower erupted from beneath the bed, bolted under the table and around behind the stove – twice – and from thence into the next room, chasing something only he could see.

 

They stared as one after the dog, and then, slowly, back at each other, and the absurdity of it hit Rathe right in the stomach.

 

Eslingen rolled his head back and groaned. Catching Rathe by the shoulders, he bore them both back down into the mattress, laid his face against Rathe's neck and proceeded to swear, creatively and at great length.

 

There was nothing else for it. As Eslingen's aggrieved recitation continued, never once repeating itself, Rathe hugged him hard and began to laugh.

 

 

_end_

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title: Hands Over Heart  
> Author: jesse  
> Pairing or character(s): Nicolas Rathe/Philip Eslingen  
> Rating: Mature  
> Wordcount: ~1300  
> Summary: We rarely see ourselves as others see us.  
> Warnings: Possible schmoop alert  
> Notes: Follows directly after the end of FAIR'S POINT. Many many grateful thanks to slantedlight, who poked, most genially. There would be none of this little tale were it not for her.


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